Blooms in the Cold Winter
by Miss Sheppard
Summary: Het Merlin/Morgana His eyes turn gold when she’s on the battle field, hands raised to the skies, head falling back, her neck outrageously nude and it’s not because magic is driving to his fingertips, no, it’s for another reason.


**Title: **Blooms in the cold winter**  
Genre: **Angst, drama, hurt/comfort, het**  
Rating: **R**  
Pairing, or characters: **Merlin/Morgana  
**Length, or word count:**1209 words  
**Warnings:** OOC: dark!Morgana, probably less dark but still dark!Merlin.

**Disclaimer : **I don't own anything but my own words.**  
N/A: **Written for story_lottery's prompt "bud" at livejournal. And many thanks to my lovely jacketpotato for the betareading!

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**Blooms in the cold winter**

In the early morning, he wipes away the tears on her cheeks like the dew on the petals of a bud. He takes her in his arms, her elbows in the hollow of his hands, he holds her, carefully enough not to bruise her, strongly enough to protect her. She's white and red and black, she's all in colors and contrasts, she's fragile like the pale rose but powerful and dark, needy when her thorns cut the skin and make the blood slowly flow.

There are stains on the sheets, on their clothes, it's all dirty, everywhere, because it's rainy out there when her magic expends and she exhales her powers to the universe. They're more than wet, they're soaked and cold, they're shivering in the winter she has built, water's dripping from his chin, from her hair. He cups her cheek with his hand and makes the flows disappear. He slips his hand to the back of her neck and then they're in her rooms again. They simply vanish and no one cares, no one says anything because no one notices: one second they're somewhere and the next one they're gone

He keeps thinking about her, even if she's right next to him. He keeps seeing in his head the last of her feat, in moving pictures, like the ones she says she has seen in her dreams, moving pictures in boxes, in a continuous loop, she says. He keeps thinking, how beautiful she is when she pushes the enemies away, destroys armies and makes monsters burn.

His eyes turn gold when she's on the battle field, hands raised to the skies, head falling back, her neck outrageously nude and it's not because magic is driving to his fingertips, no, it's for another reason. He can barely breathe when she's saving Camelot from the waves of the barbarous, when her eyes almost turn black and that they disappear with the move of an eyebrow and the clenching of her jaw.

He's dying to see more of her when she's saving their King, when she's brushing hurricanes away, turning fires off in the forests where the Druids live and making the snow stop in the mountains of the foreign lands where their peers are hiding. He could do it, oh yes he could do it on himself, it could be quicker, neater, discreet even, compared to the theatrical she's turning each of her action into. But it's too good, it too much, when watching her magic feels almost as practicing it himself, his blood rushing all over his body, his heart beating erratically, so he lets her handle it, because he can't resolve to see her stop, and he lets himself wonder how good it would be to see her freeze forests and light mountains on fire.

It's ecstasy to him, and she knows it, yes she does, that's why she's doing it, why she's always taking her time, making the show be worth its price. She foresees each of his reactions, every time he'll bit his lower lip or dig his nails in the palm of his hand, every time he'll shudder, and for how long he'll keep staring without being able to look away from her.

She doesn't care of the people and the Kings, doesn't care of the lands that could be theirs if they only wanted it, and the druids, she never really liked them after all. She's only saving these lives because she knows he's watching, she knows he likes it, because he believes this is right and she knows doing the right things give him some unexplainable pleasure she has never tasted. She does it because he likes it and seems to like it way better that this time she had called this demon of darkness herself for fun and they had never told anyone.

So when they're back from the fight, still feeling the taste of the rain and the bitter-sweet taste of magic melted with death, he helps her and brings her hair together, lifts the weight from her nape and her shoulders. He places light kisses on her neck and drinks from the water of her skin, he holds her because she's still there and her eyes are back to normal, and she holds him because she managed it one more time, she managed to stop the destruction spreading from her mind before it was too late.

He keeps protecting her, anytime, from anything, from the questions and the looks, from the King's inquiries and the Queen's worries, and he keeps telling her she's alright, she's more than alright, because he's here and they'll be fine, the both of them, as long as they're together, and that, that might well be for the eternity. He's with her at any second, because he knows, he knows she needs him to stop her, needs him to make her forget the darkness she's capable of, to embrace her when she dreams of the day she will lose control, the day he'll lose control of her, the day they'll lose each other. He has to make her forget, tell her sweet litanies and words and prayers of the Old Religion. He tries to reassure her because he knows the more frightened she is and the less control she's got. He repeats her, again and again, repeats her that they don't need anyone, don't need anything else, because they just got each other and that's all that matters. That's enough because they're the same, just the same, they're pieces of the same puzzle, assembling together perfectly, and no one will ever take them apart – he's lying, he knows he's lying and she probably knows it better, but they want to believe it, believe that no one can fight them, no one can break them because they're together.

He knows her potential, how brilliant she can grow; he doesn't get tricked by the appearances when the light hits her and that she shines bright, because he knows that she's a closed bud that only opens for him, exposing her darkest innards. She's his, his precious, fragile bud that he can't protect for ever but will try to; whatever the odds are, he swears, he'll make her bloom, even in the cold winter.

They don't talk about it, they forget about it, act like no shadow was waiting above them. He smiles with the same eagerness each day when he sees how beautiful she is, and she teases him with spells in return because she knows that when the darkness comes, he's here to hold her in his arms, and that's all she needs, after all.

She doesn't need the fighting and the killings, she doesn't really need the blood even if it's got quite a brilliant taste, and in the end he doesn't really need to watch. They know they don't really need the feeling of heat and hunger in their veins, and the pain always attached to it, always, they know they don't need the magic to be part of their flesh, but with the magic she gets the warmth in his chest, and he gets the buds to bloom.

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**I'd like to hear every of your thoughts about this ficlet.  
English isn't my mothertongue, so please, don't hesitate to point out any mistake, it can only make me progress.  
But you can point out the good things too ;)**


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